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When the evening sun is setting low |
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Blinding you on your drive home |
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And the lanes of traffic all converge |
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Causing you to curse every other word |
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For to wish it all away |
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Daily grind's got your screw stripped |
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No can of wd40 can fix your situation |
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Seems to be losing steam |
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Dream's been dropped on credit cards |
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And false hope pumping out of your soul |
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Like oil in the gulf it's a dead end |
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Drive it further deep into the ground |
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Till the point's dull as your skull |
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And the same sun that you curse |
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Powers your hybrid heart home |
